Through the Bell Jar
by Lex Reign
Summary: Standard post-war R/Hr from Hermoine’s POV, A LOT of lemon, a little angst but nothing overly dark just soul searching. A LOT of lemon to come! Just a mention of H/G WIP
1. Chapter 1: Lord Howe Island

"Lord Howe Island, Australia?" Her brow rose and she felt a slight pull from a scabbed abrasion, "Are you sure, isn't the community's population strictly regulated to around three hundred fifty?"

His face held no humor, "Yes, and only four hundred tourists allowed at anytime." He began to shuffle through the piles of paperwork lining his desk, straightening the documents without a purpose other than to preoccupy his mind.

Hermoine shook her head, her lip curling up, "Well, how could they have immigrated to that particular island?"

The Minister grinned, "You are the brightest witch of our age, and they did conceive you."

Hermoine rubbed her temples and sighed, "Do I have arrangements? I am sure there is a waiting period."

Kingsley waved his hand, "Merely six months, that gives you time to reestablish their lives here."

If her parents even wanted to return from their paradise was the only thought that crossed her mind but she regarded him coolly, "That would be imprudent." She flattened her palms against her thighs feeling the telltale grit under the pads of her susceptible fingers, misleading sensitivity.

"In any case, you may complete your N.E.W.T.S."

Hermoine's eyes shot up conveying her confusion, "I thought that that opportunity was, well, at least I should complete my last year?"

"You may take your exams whenever you feel prepared enough within the next six months. I feel you have earned at least that much from the wizarding world."

Hermoine received the last statement as petulant and she felt ungracious with her trite doubts. She looked down at her hands both lying flat on her knees. Gradually lifting her fingers with her palms remaining flat, she could still see the dirt beneath her nails, the dirt she knew did not exist and she was reminded of recent events. "I cannot stay here for now," she breathed with a stern assertion. She did not look up at Kingsley, but brooded over her path that followed the madness of that damned spot. "I will return in three months for my N.E.W.T.S. and I would truly appreciate arrangements to travel to Sydney, if not Lord Howe Island." She rose from the armchair and extended one of those blotched and tarnished hands, watching the robotic pleasantries unfold as though outside of her body. She marveled at how easily the man across the table leapt to embrace that filth and she knew she would be unable to meet his eyes while she could not calm these raging thoughts.

His voice caught her by surprise, "Thank you Hermoine, I will do my best by you."

She pulled her hand away quickly, and even before he could encase her delicate fingers in his own she felt her nerve endings give a vicious shock as though lightening had struck her extremities and she heard him gasp in reaction, "I am sorry if I have been out of sorts." She licked her cracked lips, sampling the remnants of a metallic flavor, "I will not have a forwarding address at this time."

Kingsley's brow knitted in concern, "Let me also reward you with financial compensation then…"

His words were lost on her as she turned her head toward the solitary window framed in darkness and she could see the billowing clouds, motionless black and blue with the torment of fragile mortality. Since that night, if in fact it had been night, she continuously felt the shudder running up and down her spine, as though at any moment her discs would crush beneath the ache of that thrilling pain. Her nose creased as the all too familiar smell of burning hair and the muck of vomit, blood and feces that had once stained the grounds of Malfoy Manor filled her nostrils from an unseen source. She heard that witch laughing, no, cackling ravenously and she was deaf to the reality of what the Minister was telling her. The echoing miscellany of pain that even now threatened to rip through her muscles numbed her reaction to the heavy velvet purse that dropped hap hazardously into her outstretched hand.

She left, knowing that her body had not betrayed her. She had mechanically given a farewell along with her respect for Mr. Shackelbolt's kindness. Tucking the purple purse into her robes, her knuckles lightly skimmed her wand. She drowned further into that non-reality when the crisp shaft of her wand almost stung her with the curses she had so easily cast not very long ago. Swallowing hard, she registered her feet carrying her from the Ministry and onto the streets overcast with the mirth of recent war and England's fog. The clouds seemed to surround her and sheath her in a tomb of her own device and she began to feel sick as her steps became exponentially more arduous. Stomp, stomp, stomp, she dared not drag her feet for fear of falling deeper into the abyss of her surreal perception of the present. Instead she focused on one thing, getting the hell away from this moment and the previous moments that had led her here.

She did not know exactly how long it took her to reach the doors of the Leaky Cauldron, she balanced her whole body however frail and exhausted against the swollen wood heaving open the doors as though they weighed a ton. Almost tumbling into the establishment, she was greeted by a blinding light that evaporated the mist muddying her vision. Pausing at the threshold, the room dimed and she was aware that it had merely been a trick of her own mind and the Leaky Cauldron suddenly looked as it always had with the whistling of distinct music filtering through the atmosphere. In relief, she ran her fingers through her hair which had been damped by the weather. Taking in a shaky breath, she made her way to the bar and climbed clumsily onto a stool. Without a word spoken, a glass materialized before her with four cubes of ice, an amber bottle levitated and poured the concoction slowly into the tumbler.

Hermoine welcomed the distraction being conjured in front of her and grasped the fire whiskey firmly. Frowning to herself she resigned not to regret this brief lapse of her often steely resolve, a fleeting thought of Fred crossed her mind, she deftly took a large gulp and hissed at the burn briefly regretting her Gryffindor nature. Soon the flames died down and she felt warmth spread in her belly. Smiling, she lifted her glass to the dark figure behind the bar that only tilted their head in acknowledgement. She felt the edges of rationality return and she attributed such coherence to the liquor and took another healthy gulp. Her cognition slowed as her thoughts no longer wandered morosely through the rubble of neither her beloved Hogwarts nor the broken bodies of her friends. Instead, she listened adoringly to the music and chatter that trickled playfully above her acting as a bystander to the world around her.

A couple of hours passed and three tall glasses later, she made an attempt to stand from her stool. Practically dropping from the height of her seat, she laughed to herself and knew she was blushing and to her surprise she was not embarrassed but finally content with herself. She did not have to fear the days to come, she could complete her exams and live her life and all of these events could be banished from her existence. With gusto she held herself up between the sturdy bar and widdled stool, letting the rush of adrenaline console her. Inspiration making a great escape, she was going to create as much distance between herself and the malevolence that had formed the cohesive bond of her friendships and ambitions. She was going to transcend the incarnated evil that manifested itself in Lord Voldemort and, as she had come to believe, in her own self as well as Harry and Ron when they wore the Horcruxes. She felt free when she determined that she would abstain from her past and all that it had been composed of, that was until she felt that strong hand on her lower back.

"Hermoine," the voice so collected but the tone full of doubt.

Already hating the idea of who it could possibly be she peered up at him slowly and the fortitude to put as much space between her and the past seven years fell away along with the increasingly raucous noise of the Leaky Cauldron. An unanticipated burning brimmed behind her eyes and she could not halt the anguished look that painted her face. He mirrored her in that moment. They had both judged the world cruel and dark. They had both resigned to bring an end to the torment of the veracity that evil directed their lives. They sought refuge in a distraction of sensations, to lessen the intangible burden. They did not need to speak or confirm what had transpired between them but instead they begrudgingly pulled away from each other and Hermoine made a new scheme, one which she intended to be short-lived.

He thoughtfully tossed some galleons on the scored wood and she followed him, blindly, to the stairway and the seconds swiftly passed until she was immersed in the darkness of a bedroom with his back to her as he shut the door. They remained silent as he cautiously pivoted in her direction and she adroitly strode towards to small window, tugging the heavy wool to peak another time into the desolate sky that haunted the once vibrant alley. She felt his large hands grip her shoulders those familiar calloused hands as dirtied as her own, and that unmistakable anxiety she harbored on the stairs shattered. She forgot to breathe. He leaned down with his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, a gesture that she never expected. Her hands dropped to her sides and her heavy lids slid shut. She allowed the alcohol to guide her judgment and she turned to him.

Their eyes met again and the pale blue of his irises was the very first comfort she had found since the war had ended, so clear and uncompromising. She regarded this as inebriation and pushed her body into his, drawing his head down with her hands at the nape of his neck. Their lips met and it was gentle. She hesitated for a moment, a mere and unnecessary split second to reevaluate the situation, and slanted her mouth on his. Despite the torture they had endured and what she felt was a perversion of their relationship, a fever was ignited and he wrapped his arms around her waist. She felt as though she stood on a cloud and soon discovered that her toes were sliding over the floorboards as her back came in contact with the chill of the thick glass she had uncovered. He pinned her there and his fingers tugged at her robes, she felt her nails dig into the flesh of his muscled neck and roughly pull through his fiery locks much softer than her own.

She sighed when the heavy fabric slid from her shoulders, catching at her elbows only a moment as he guided her body to undress for him. She was in no mentality to act modestly or perceive the discomfort of her aching joints that were exacerbated by the chill of the lonely breeze wafting under the seal of the pane. She let him move her, control her body and worship her new scars and healing bruises. She allowed him to cleanse the shooting pain running through her nerves with his tongue and lips, teeth lightly nipping at tender wounds, finding herself succumbing to these compassionate affections in an endeavor to quash her suspicions. He rubbed her arms and gently and guided her to the bed that soon cringed under the weight of two people. She sighed, barely aware of her complete nudity, and she indulged for only the second time in reveling in his interest.

She eyed him curiously as he kneeled at the end of the mattress. Shoving off his robes and almost ripping the tattered shirt from over his head, she lunged at him. They met again in a heated embrace with her hands gripping his broad shoulders, his clavicle bone slightly more pronounced than in previous months. Her brow knitted in empathy and she traveled her caresses over his chest, sides, back, tracing and memorizing the feel of his flesh against her own. She was tantalized by his reaction to her touch and found herself fiercely fighting for his adoration. He breathed some sentence, groaning as she reached his trousers and made quick work of undressing him. She was not in the disposition to decipher any cryptic messages and she did not care to analyze the situation, critical thinking could wait until she felt like herself again, vulnerability was not an option.

Somehow, she was covering him as he was now naked and lying incorrectly across the narrow mattress with his head almost hanging over the edge while his knees bent over the other side. She admired his marred visage, still holding the semblance of the boy she grew up, the boy she rashly kissed in the midst of battle. Frowning at her thoughts, she slung her leg over his thighs and straddled his lean figure. She reached between them and gripped his engorged penis while suckling at his ear. She heard his unintelligible moan and his breathing becoming thick as he labored to remain coherent. Her other hand found his and she continued to stroke him as she pressed his unoccupied hand onto her chest, squeezing her right breast. He gasped and without warning attempted to halt her ministrations, muttering to her incompressible phrases. She did not need explanations.

Hermoine did not hesitate and took this opportunity as he leaned her upright to shove his penis inside of her and sit on her haunches. The tightness in her groin was transitory though the tension of stretched muscles remained and she saw his strangled expression, creased forehead and lips pursed. She had seen the look so often in recent past; she braced a hand on his stomach and arched her back to avoid that look. Her right hand landed on his thigh and she raised her hips. At first she gave very inconsistent and shallow thrusts, concentrating only on the sensation of his penis sliding in and out of her. She was somewhat uncomfortable when she lowered herself too far onto him. She could hardly undulate without feeling some form of remorse and she could not dwell on that now.

As soon as she felt his shaking hands encircle her petit waist, she inclined over his chest with her face hidden above his shoulder. Feeling a wave of encouragement, she immediately discovered a rhythm and felt the strain of her muscles wean with a new tension blissfully superseding. She clawed at his shoulders, wrists going under his shoulder blades only to move faster and she could feel her own awkward breathing and erratic heartbeat. Her toes curled and she felt him trying to hold his orgasm at bay as she fought for her own release. He cam then and she did not show him mercy, but rather moved over him more fervently and she felt tears slip down her cheeks as she shouted her orgasm, the heat pooling through her legs and her insides clenching. He held her firmly to him and supported her weight without complaint while smoothing her ruffled hair, the other hand splayed on her lower back.

She did not know where those frustrated tears sprang from or even when they had started. She had a sneaking suspicion she had been crying from the moment she forced penetration and she did not want to look him in the face. She was still too weakened to stand but did roll off of him and onto her side, her back to him. She thought she felt him turn his head to her but they both remained silent. It felt as though hours passed and Hermoine lifted her protesting body to gather her things, slinging them over her form and leaving just as abruptly through the door he had previously held open for her, inviting her, welcoming her. Before shutting the door she looked back at him. Naked and peering over his shoulder, he had been watching her the whole time and for the first time since she had known him, he did not toss even the hint of a smile, all humor lost in the recesses of his inaccessible thoughts. She swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling at fault for having encumbered him, and again disappeared into the frigid early morning fog.

A few months later she returned to the Ministry without a signal of her arrival or even a letter to her friends. She had spent the time amongst an obscure wizarding settlement outside of a small village in the United Kingdom. The settlement was originally a monastery of sorts and for the past two centuries was devoted to the study and reproduction of ancient literary works for future generations. The territory remained untouched by the plight, as though a holy ground or a place of salvation. She enveloped herself in parchment, dust, and ink, in an effort to make amends with past transgressions and her lack of civility preceding the war. She could not find peace within the text that covered the tattered pages in archaic tomes. She sought forgiveness and consequently continued to find relentless malice in the history of mankind, she felt as lost as ever when no sign of hope flared on a distant horizon.

Shaking her head to focus on her purpose, she heard her feet pattering on the newly installed marble of the lobby floor of the renovated building. She passed Mr. Weasley in the hall and scuttled through the crowd intent on hiding her identity from the older gentleman, even raising a hand to her brow in the hope that she may mask her features. She knew that he has registered her appearance but when he turned to greet her, he witnessed her flight through the expanse of the entrance and sighed to himself, feeling even more distressed by these events. She could not witness such an episode, preoccupied with her own urgent tribulations. She faltered in her step, Hermoine missed Fred's burial. She had missed so many others' burials. She did send all of her remaining monetary "compensation" to the Wealseys anonymously to try and counteract her irrational guilt. She was feeling ultimately disgusted at this point.

She completed her N.E.W.T.S. as promptly as possible after double and triple checking her answers, she was then given the news that she was capable of traveling to Lord Howe Island as soon as she was prepared to leave, reservations for three weeks with all expenses paid and contact information for the resident healer to aid in the restoration of her parents' memories. Taking a deep breath, she looked over the itinerary. Distracted by the impending journey and overwhelming emotions of seeing her parents after so long, she bumped into the back of another person. She uttered a brusque apology but before walking by the individual, she was roughly pulled into a hug. She pushed away violently only to hear a curt laugh and she looked up into the face of a mock scandalized Harry Potter. She appeared to be a deer caught in headlights, but he just brushed the encounter off as nerves.

"Hermoine! I am so glad to see you again, Kingsley was never able to give us your address and we wanted to floo…" His tirade of cheer faded into the back of her mind and she saw Ron standing behind him. He seemed just as surprised to have her run into them. "We are starting Auror training. It should be wicked difficult what with the new…"

She held Ron's gaze and again found that fleeting comfort. With her mind devoid of thought, she interjected, "I am going away to fetch my parents. I am not sure how long it will take."

Harry eyed her with reservation, "Will you send us some notice this time?" She shrugged obligingly and he added, "I have some very interesting news." Hermoine eyed him and he blurted out, "I am secretly engaged!"

Ron finally spoke, "Not much of a secret if you ask me. Yelling in the middle of the Ministry lobby and all…"

Hermoine genuinely smiled for the first time since she was given the news of the war's end, "That's wonderful, Harry."

Harry wagged his eyebrows, "You never asked to whom."

She rolled her eyes and Ron sarcastically pointed out, "That is definitely not a secret."

Hermoine allowed the faint inkling of a laugh to blow past her lips and the relief of feeling something, anything, eased her heart. In that moment she felt somewhat guilty and her eyes lowered to her feet. Harry merely scoffed at Ron, "Anyway, I think I am going to announce the engagement after training. I do hope you will be able to attend the ceremony, though we do not have a date set."

Hermoine forced herself to look him straight into the face, "Of course, Harry."

Ron snuck around Harry, staring at her the entire time, and Hermoine could not have predicted that the fingers of his right hand would skim along the back of her own. She inhaled sharply and looked at Harry, who was oblivious to the exchange. Harry looked passed her and excused himself to visit with an acquaintance that Hermoine could not place in her scattered thoughts. Without warning, she was rapidly led through the crowd with her hand in Ron's and she felt a now foreign impression of excitement enter her belly. Her heart thudded as he turned his head inquisitively, then scanned the hallway and pulled her into an empty storage room. They were again silent and he rubbed the back of his neck in consternation. His lips opened and closed as if to say something and Hermoine closed the distance between them, hoping to achieve some form of humanity.

He was shocked by her thrusting herself at him; their bodies flush against one another and her arms wrapped around his firm shoulders. He had filled out over the months that he had devoted to recovering from their hunt for the Horcruxes. Their eyes remained open, questioning one another but his hands found their way to her waist and she felt the heat of those brilliant instruments through her robes. He relaxed for a moment and she remembered specifically his tenderness. Her throat burned and she felt her chin tremble. She knew the heat that seeped into her body from his embrace was enough to quell her muddled uncertainty. As soon as she forgot the void that she had been quickly slipping into, that emptiness, a familiar pressure built between her thighs. Her eyes slid shut as she catapulted into the superb passion his touch stirred within her. She felt sane in that moment, and she was not focused on the quandaries that lie ahead.

He pulled her away slightly and his eyes tried to convey volumes but she merely ravaged his neck in response. She was baffled by what she perceived at indecision and she sought to goad him into action by diverting him from the complications of fallacious promises. A throaty moan erupted from his throat and the heat began to pull. Again, he pushed at her shoulders, instead of allowing the gesture; she lowered to her knees gracefully while strategically parting his robes. She heard him voice her name in question but she neglected to look up, only reaching to undo his trousers and release his erect penis. He hissed when she delicately took him into her right hand and ran the length; he was so thick and soft. She heard the thud of his head hitting the wall he leaned against behind him when she reached out her small pink tongue to taste him, that bitter and intoxicating flavor that held her captive.

He whispered a prayer to himself and she smiled, taking him into her mouth and holding the rest of him. She sucked gleefully and felt his fingers play in her hair timidly. Finally risking a glance upward, she was overcome with desire when their eyes met. She worked faster and reached into his trouser again, only to fondle his testicles. His head again hit the wall and she pulled deliciously at the sensitive flesh. He did not last long, she praised her receptive temperament. He warned her in a choked voice of his impending release and she delighted in his effort to maintain some semblance of control. She felt his balls tighten and quiver as he climaxed into her mouth. She saw his knees shake, his hand falling from her head to grasp the rail of a shelf beside him. She tried to consume the ejaculate and was fairly successful, as only a novice could be, and without a second thought wiped the remaining fluid on the inside of her robes.

She stood and was met by his questioning eyes, heavy panting, and sweating brow. He was a magnificent sight to behold and she swallowed again, her throat feeling dry from what she believed to be her most recent activities. He reached a hand up to touch her face; something she again did not expect was warranted. Her head tilted and he chose to refrain from such an action. His expression drawn and she did not have the inclination to clear the air. She felt irregular, not shameful, she had always been impulsive. Straightening her own attire, she witnessed him trying to attain some decorum while tucking his penis back into his pants. Before he could reach out to her again and before he could inspire another exchange, she hastily exited the storage room without exhibiting any form of anxiety to the few people that passed her in the hallway. In her head, she clawed at the surface of a burgeoning reality.

That was when she had the distinct notion that she was running, running from the war and her past and the people that she might have the opportunity to share a future with but as quickly as the idea crossed her mind, she knew she was overreacting and made her way to the liaison that would steer her to Lord Howe Island. Rationalizing, she would not have returned to complete her exams, stopped to converse with Harry, or even allowed the Ministry to aid in retrieving her parents if she was not dead set on making this new world right. "New" and "right" seemed awfully inept words to describe the predicament, but she was positive that she not running. In any case, she detached herself from this pattern of thought.


	2. Chapter 2: Another Dream

Another dream, but as they continued to reoccur she also recognized the predicament and this time she easily found herself caught in the tightly twisted sheets of the sparse hotel bed. She lifted a weak hand to monitor her overheated forehead, pushing damp tangles of hair from her perspiring face as she tugged her legs from the vice-like grip of white linen. As the images drifted away from her heavily lidded eyes, she leaned back onto her palms in order to sit up and control her breathing. As an enterprise to adapt to the ever changing world she was educating herself on how to alleviate the symptoms of a stressed mind while ascertaining how to avoid nightmares and manage her body's responses through the study of biofeedback. At least she would keep telling herself that, she fought valiantly but there was no escape from her overactive imagination or the past that fed the bizarre fiend. There were definitely periods where she had a sense that she was losing control, she distinguished this as more noxious than all of her other uncertainties. She breathed deeply, slowly, in through her nose and expelling through her mouth.

She frowned sitting alone in that dark empty room assessing the spontaneously occurring dreams that could hardly be considered horrendous. She felt a tsunami of shame washed over her. The dreams were not about the war or the loss of longtime companions, they did not involve Fred or Tonks, and they did not return her to Malfoy Manor. She merely dreamt of death, silent and so very cunning. At first, she would find herself isolated in blackness where she could only see her pale skin reflecting the light that came from her eyes alone. She would feel a cold chill tickle up her spine and her digits would go numb as her veins flooded with ice and the realization that what was in front of her, that darkness, would be the last thing that she would see alone. All of this would send her spiraling into a panic. She could not move but only clench her jaw, gnashing her teeth and at a certain point feeling the bones give way and splinter in her mouth, dust filling the cavity and choking her. Then as she resigned to surrender to that cold in the desire to end the persecution, she would become aware that she was not dying. She would have to live. She would remain alone in obscurity, that wild abandon. She dreamt of the death of the world and her destruction through self preservation.

Peeling her damp tank top away from her chest to relieve some of the oppressive heat, her mind meandered away from this preoccupation with her vulnerability. She did not want to go back to London; she did not want to establish her future when she steadfastly believed that she could not stay behind, she could not be static, and she refused to destroy the sanctity of her childhood home. Neither did she want to face her now thoroughly pissed off parents and make a half-hearted attempt to convince them that remembering their forgotten lives was invaluable, they had actually remembered well enough. She also did not want to steal away to another nameless settlement and seek out the eternal truth and in turn fill her head with self-righteous ideation. She was aware of the fact that she was precocious, but by no means was Hermoine a saint. It dawned on her then, she knew exactly what she wanted and maligned herself for such uninvited thoughts. Sneaking a glance to her bedside table, she spied paper and a pen. A single tear made its way down her cheek and she would have given everything in that moment just to laugh, damn her impulsive nature. Harry had sweetly implored her to write and she had agreed, having been on the island for over a week now she could safely say that she was overdue on her obligation and lonely at that.

She could not wipe the offending tear away fast enough and moved warily to the table with her legs slung over the side of the bed. Deftly lifting the fat writing instrument, she knew that preferred a quill with a firm rachis and crisp barbs. Now her cognitions were scrambling to avoid unwelcome intruders, curse him. Biting her lower lip, she instead contemplated what she could tell Harry, asking ruefully what she could tell him without sounding like the entire trip had been a complete waste of time. She did not want to dare mention that she had not been to the beach or even the museum. That was all too illuminating. Thus far, she had been a professional regarding the ordeal and had remained devoted to giving the memories back to her parents and informing them on the events that they had missed. Her parents immediately expressed a strong aversion to the wizarding world as well as a drastic climate change; it was blatantly obvious that they did have any intention of leaving their utopia. She could corroborate that the island was desperately beautiful and she in that very instant resolved to spend the rest of her allotted time in this small corner of the world on holiday.

Opening the pen roughly, she pulled the notepad with the hotel insignia toward her with determination but as soon as the felt tip hit the paper she was again dumbstruck. She knew she would have to calculate what was appropriate without elaborating. The ink pooled under the burdensome contact for a moment and she swiftly scrawled Harry's name in the upper left hand corner, then taking note of the date in the right hand corner. Her penmanship was not as tight and controlled as it usually was but she nevertheless informed him briefly of her trip, the accommodations, and the situation with her parents as well as her intentions for the next week. The letter was simple enough to compose, only two small pages worth and hardly a lick of substantial emotion, not even a revealing "I miss you." Skillfully folding the paper, she decided to make one more addition. Before she could second guess her decision and what seemed like an afterthought there at the very bottom of her correspondence read, "P.S. send Ron my love." She had said it in the past and she should not hesitate is saying it now, that being alleged with all of the conviction she could muster, she acknowledged that she was never one for Divination and her thoughts were rambling again.

The very next day she sent out the communication without a hindering thought and took the occasion to stretch and swoon, partaking in the soothing powers of the ocean and the sun while walking along the shore. She visited the memorial to Francis Chichester's 1931 Pacific voyage and abandoned the tour to explore the island's history by her lonesome. As the day came to a close she watched the boats sail lazily into the harbor to dock and unload. That had been enough to determine that all woes could universally be cured with a sufficient amount of time. The day after, she took a tour of the Kentia Palm Nursery, opting to stay in the assigned group though the majority of the expedition she felt forgotten among the crowd and became bored with the syrupy droning of the guide. That evening, she made her way up to Arthur's Seat on Mount Gower, the view as the sun touched the horizon was awe inspiring. This naturally brought her to the realization that she sat at a crossroads but she still could not make amends with the past and instead left to engross herself with a bottle of wine on the balcony of her room.

On the third day she woke up in the late afternoon and traded in Neds Beach and feeding the fish for the North Bay. The shore was more secluded as one moved away from the pier and she lost herself in the balmy weather with the silky texture of sand sifting between her naked toes. She spent the remaining sunlight basking in the warming rays and noticed that from her jaunt around the island she was rewarded with a very attractive tint that accentuated the olive color of her skin. She smiled to herself, allowing for the moment to be vain and at the same time lather on more sunscreen before she regretted this suspension from responsibility. As the sun began to set, she made the trek back to her hotel at a leisurely pace. She ordered a succulent dinner of seafood and roasted meat with a grand helping of exotic fruits. A bottle of champagne was sent up to her room as a compliment from the management, she did not object. She also did not object to partaking in a fat cigar she had spotted in a very quaint shop two days ago.

After dinner, she again lazed on the balcony and listened intently to the music from a club somewhere on the street below. The gentleman who sold her the cigar warned her to use matches and not to inhale; he had even cut it for her saying that he did not trust a neophyte with such a fine roll. She pondered the cigar and fingered the matches in her left hand. Smacking her lips, she was steadfast to taste the flavor of this sin. Holding the tip if the cigar between her teeth, it was much too heavy, she struck one match that flared to life only to be doused by a breeze and then struck a second. Her eyes watered because of the deviant smoke that was being emitted when she puffed gracelessly to form a cherry. Coughing for the first time after taking in too much of that smoke, her limbs became very lax and she smiled to herself because this had to be some form intoxication initiated by the nicotine. She felt somewhat stupefied and laughed at the nonsensicality of her actions, pouring a glass of her complimentary champagne with the cigar still tucked neatly in her mouth.

She was not aware if one should smoke and drink or what the proper protocol was for enjoying these delicacies but she was nevertheless jovial and she found the heady flavor of hickory and orange predominant on her tongue. The music seemed to rise in volume and she allowed the beat to move her body while she was slung inelegantly in her chair. Living by the seat of her pants some would say, she was rather comfortable. To her utter shock, there was a knock at her door. Her heart leapt, she would be caught in her aberrant behavior. What more could she possibly do to earn her parents' scorn she thought resentfully. She swung her head around, praying that it was not her ungracious parents. She made quick work of hiding the cigar and champagne behind the chair she was sitting on and straightened her loose cotton dress. Preening in the mirror and forgetting to check her breath, why oh why could she not be more discreet, she flung open the door looking like she had swallowed something pungent. This was swiftly replaced with her head reeling from the sight in front of her.

"What are you doing here?" She practically accused with a hiss behind her words and she pointed at his chest while she scanned him to be sure that it was in fact Ronald Weasley.

He clucked his tongue, "Is that anyway to greet your best mate?" She blinked and did not move, not even when he walked passed her with a wide gaunt into her hotel room. She turned her head, disbelieving and just in time to witness Ron discovering her dirty secrets behind the balcony chair. He chortled and puffed on the cigar, "You're acting like I am the Devil!" He shot at her gleefully and in mock seriousness added, "Since when do you smoke?"

She shook her head, "I-I, well, it was not apparent that, I- I don't know and I don't have to explain myself to you of all people!" It was so much easier to talk directly to the red-haired boy, man actually, when she was on the war path. She shut the door and taking long strides, stole the cigar from his mouth and bent to retrieve her glass of champagne. Painfully, she was reminded of their encounters and fanned away the flush that crept into her cheeks. "I am not due to leave yet, why are you here?"

She leaned over the rail, glass in one hand and the cigar in the other. The phrase repeated in her head almost pleadingly, why is he here? She took a long draw of that cigar and her eyes watered from the effort, she kept her composure and drank the rest of the contents of the glass the calm the searing of her throat before setting the empty flute on the rail. Ron made busy work of getting comfortable in the chair she had previously occupied and from her peripheral vision she observed him take a swig from the champagne bottle. What was this that ate away inside of her and why could she not start again? The feat of his appearance was more than endearing, especially to the girl that had fallen in love with him under very compromising and questionable circumstances. In retrospect, he was thoughtful of her. All in all, to Hermoine this did not excuse him for him helping himself to her treats!

Before she could object to his conduct, he reached over and his long body easily lifting the flute on the rail, "Harry said you might need some company because you seemed," he paused in his sentenced and finished topping off the glass only to put it back in its place near her elbow, "distant, and Kingsley suggested I go instead of some git who you don't even know."

She sighed and her brow knitted, normally she would scold his language but she was not feeling like herself. She no longer wanted the cigar and discarded the roll on the railing which Ron gladly took off her hands. They still had their unspoken communication it seemed and it could be said that they also shared insight into each other's frame of mind, well at least Harry did she scoffed. Hermoine could not believe that she had been that transparent in her letter but maybe she could hope that this was a nice excuse for Ron to see her before he left for Auror training. She was thoroughly distressed by the contradicting ideas when she remembered the problems with their intimacy and her negative interpretation won out. The question of the motives behind any sort of relationship between them plagued her; she could not overlook the evil that had dominated the trio. So many things were left unsaid between them and to her it seemed irrevocable. Ron played into her insecurities when he remained silent in this regard, but only in this regard.

As if on cue, "It's a nice place, I have been here for a few hours but I couldn't find you."

Hermoine fell back into her most recent affliction since the war; she lost her train of thought and could not open her mouth to speak, the words would not manifest. She registered that he continued to speak but she was unable to follow his recount of traveling with port keys or his excursions while searching for her whereabouts. She felt as if she was suffocating again, she knew that she was recovering while here and he was mucking it up with all of his charming mannerisms and the quality of his focused attention on her. She had the urge to slap him for making her so susceptible or to kiss him indefinitely, at least until he felt the same damned way she did. She hazarded a glimpse over her shoulder and caught him staring at her bare feet. His gaze never lifted above her ankles and she realized that he had stopped talking at some point. Color rose to her cheeks modestly.

"Ron," she could not believe she had finally been able to acknowledge his singular presence as though to save her from her own thoughts. She welcomed the company but again a pang of severe reservation hit her when she thought about how they had gotten here, "you should go."

Lethargy had taken over the sentence and it was a whisper, inaudible to anyone that had not spoken it, Ron rose from his chair and came to her side thinking that she needed assistance. Before he could touch her, she whisked the glass from the rail and spun towards the sliding doors, waltzing arrogantly into the bedroom. She was so perplexed, nothing made sense anymore. Ron put out the cigar and leaned against the doorway watching her intently as she turned on the muggle radio and searched out a proper station, she felt his eyes blazing on her skin. He crossed his arms over his chest and she groaned inwardly at the transformation he had undergone since the war. She had not taken too much time to inspect his physique when she initiated the impromptu blow job at the Ministry. He was filling out, muscles already toned and shoulders so broad. He was much taller and if she did not know him better she would find his looming presence very intimidating. Actually, it was quite intimidating seeing as her body was going into a sexual frenzy, betraying her damaged heart.

He said something from across the room and she brushed it off, downing her glass of champagne and the bubbles filled her throat beyond capacity. She scowled at the feeling and managed to swallow uncomfortably. He looked back and in a very expert movement, so unlike him, he retrieved the bottle of champagne. He slowly sauntered over to her, save her from this errant attraction. She was leaning over the stand with the radio, her palms holding the majority of her weight and she closed her eyes hoping he would dissolve into her fantasies and away from reality. The thin straps of the white cotton bit into her tense shoulders, her head lulled to one side but shot up when she felt his timid fingers brush questioningly over her right shoulder. He mouthed something, she could not make it out, just watched his lips and the hint of his tongue behind his teeth.

She shook her head signaling that she had not heard him and he responded, "Are you all right?" She looked down at her hands and there was the dirt that she was so sure she had gotten rid of; the ever-present malignant grime that she could not purify. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder now, steering her body to face him. She lifted her gaze to meet his, "Hermoine…"

He trailed off and she was stoic, as though stone. Searching his eyes, her fingertips itched to touch him, but this was corrupt. She needed a shower and vocalized as much in a weak voice overshadowed by her skepticism, and in a haze scurried into the bathroom. She turned the faucet to the right and allowed the running water to warm up while she drew the curtain to avoid creating an excessive mess on the slick floor. She closed the lid of the toilet and sat there staring blankly at the grout between the commonplace tiles, just waiting for rationality to return. Minutes passed and she regretted her reaction to his words, to his touch. She wrung her hands and heard a light tap on the door as it swiveled open after she had conveniently failed to shut it all of the way, a Freudian slip if there ever was one. She feared that she looked aghast which would be very uncharacteristic between two longstanding friends. He entered without pause and kneeled in front of her.

"You going to get in?"

His voice was calming as his hands rested on the outside of her thighs, she maintained eye contact and his thumbs brushed at the fabric of her dress. Here they were again and she decided that as long as she had had her first cigar and a feast for a king, she might as well indulge in his embrace as twisted and difficult the situation had become. She would consent to her unwavering needs. She cupped his jaw and leaned in to kiss him but instead he stood up while holding her hands in place and bringing her to her feet, her body against him. He leaned into her with his forehead aligning with hers and he closed his eyes. She felt secure for the first time in such a long time, maybe years. She closed her own eyes and focused on the feel of his stubble against her palms. He sighed yielding to some internal battle and let go of her hands, trailing his fingers down her forearms and over her elbows to her waist and lower to the hem of her dress.

She opened her eyes to meet his and he tenderly lifted the fabric, bringing the clothing over hips and to her breasts before she lifted her arms to help him in completely removing the dress. He grinned at her but his eyes did not, she did not care at this point while standing in just a pair of thin panties. He dropped the dress to the side and ran the knuckles of his right hand lightly from her sternum to her navel. She let out a breathy moan and he hooked his thumbs into the sides of her only remaining article of clothing. He pulled them down with his body following the path down her toned legs. He seemed to bow to her while doing so and she had the state of mind to feel embarrassed. This was the first time that he had seen her naked, this was the first time she had unveiled her wounds to anyone in the light, she felt exposed. He looked up at her as she kept a hand on his shoulder to keep her equilibrium when she stepped out of her underwear and she kicked them towards the dress while biting the inside of her cheek.

He must have notice her concern and without breaking eye contact placed his lips adoringly on the curve of her left hip and another just a little lower. He had kissed the raised flesh of a scar received from dodging an unforgivable curse. She whimpered as it all seemed unreal and he stood to help her into the shower. She shook her head when he moved to lift her; he stood back appearing as though he thought that he had hurt her and a glimmer of lament passed over his visage. She just reached to his clothing, towing his shirt over his head and undoing the trousers that dropped soundlessly to the floor. She could see his arousal hidden behind his boxers and she licked her lips. Before she could place her hand on him, he grabbed her wrist of the outstretched hand and let out a small laugh. She was reassured and waited for him to remove them himself, yanking them off in the fashion indicative of his character.

He held her hand like a gentleman as she stepped into the basin. He followed behind her with his hand now at her waist, his calloused fingers a contrast to the texture of her skin. She was turned away from him and he dragged her into his chest and walked them under the spray. His feet were planted outside of her feet and she felt his penis at her back. He reached for the soap that was scented with coconut. Apprehension wrenched through her, signaling that this intimacy was something more than what she had bargained for but he only dragged the bar over her right shoulder and down her arm, not missing one inch of her skin. She watched the dirt fall from her limbs in clumps to the floor of the tub and slither down the drain. She stared at the filth that had coated her body in self-loathing. He kissed the shoulder that he had just cleansed and moved to the next. He removed the smut of months and years past. She felt a burden lifted from her chest when he took her hands in his with the same intent, so conscientious.

He continued his work, over her back and stomach, down her legs and back at her breasts and neck. He pinched her nipple and licked the shell of her ear. She moaned loudly this time, finding her voice from beneath the debris that had weighed her down. He suckled at her neck and weighed her right breast in his hand while his left hand traveled to the apex of her thighs. She had unknowingly clenched her legs together in an effort to alleviate the delicious tension and as soon as his fingers reached the curls there, she parted her knees. He slid one robust digit over her swollen lips and up again only to find her clitoris and run light circles vigorously over the bundle of nerves before plunging the same digit inside of her. His right hand moved to her left breast manipulating the nipple to elicit the same vocal responses while assisting her balance as he started to finger her.

She squirmed against him with her hands clenching his thighs, her nails digging in perilously to form crescents. She wanted to beg him to bring her release. She wanted to be his supplicant. She was already on the verge of dropping to her knees and then he nipped at her ear and squeezed her nipple while his palm rubbed roughly against her clitoris and her pulsating body leapt off the that zenith as her insides thrummed in passion. The crescendo was made even more glorious when he continued to move his finger within her and suck at her ear lobe. Her hands slid between them and she came in contact with his penis. This facilitated a very guttural moan in her ear. She could feel his engorged flesh throb with anticipation, she stroked him teasingly and his hold on her tightened.

To ameliorate the position, she maneuvered his penis over ass cheeks and he hissed while his grip on her weakened enough so that she could lean forward displaying herself to him. She saw him gulp and he muttered a few choice words to himself as he fisted his penis. His knees shook; it was a challenge for him to exhibit patience. She braced a hand on the wall in front of her and inclined on her toes to help him reach her, the head of his penis slid over her opening and he mumbled his approval. Slowly, he pushed his way inside of her and Hermoine moaned his name. Ron paused taking this as a sign of discomfort; she only tipped back against him, pushing him all of the way inside of her. His eyes closed in bliss and he moved behind her, Hermone's back arched. Her shoulders at his chest and her right hand came to grip his buttocks while the other pulled at his hair.

He kissed her neck and she turned to have their lips make contact for the first time that evening. The gesture was irresistible and he grunted, moving faster into her. When the kiss broke, she moved her hands back to that opposing wall and started to meet his thrusts. He clenched her hips, the spray hitting them where their bodies joined. Hermoine felt another orgasm build and wanted to appease that pressure. She reached between her legs and fondled his testicles; he half shouted and moved with a riotous strength. Hermoine could not control the succession of moans as she neared her second orgasm. His hands started to clench her sides and she knew he was close when his balls tightened. The final thrusts were quick and shallow but he pulled her up against him again to reach around her body and with a few swift flicks of her clitoris, he had her shouting his name.

He removed himself from inside her and her knees buckled, he merely hugged her at the waist and she was content to lean back against his strong form. She could hear their thunderous breathing amplified by the walls of the bathroom. Glowing from the heat of their shower and physical activity, he washed her body again as her legs felt like jelly. Her hand trembled when she turned off the faucet and he helped her out of the tub, her head swam. She stood in the middle of the bathroom, unable to process her own thoughts or register their actions. He plucked a towel from the rack and dried her body, making sure he did not miss a bead of water. He slung the towel over her head and squeezed the water from her hair, his face unreadable. She wanted him to smile; she wanted him to say something just anything. He saw her doe eyes beneath heavy hair and he wrapped the towel around her shoulders in what she perceived as capitulation. She wanted him to kiss her.

He reached for a towel of his own, the disappointment swelled within her, and she darted to the bedroom because of an unsated heart. The balcony doors were still open and she flushed with the obscene images of their copulation rampantly flashing before her eyes. She made quick work of pulling on some clothing and grabbed her wallet then dashing from the room without a word just as he exited the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist. She could not stay, not if she knew he was staying. He had already gotten what needed and in a sense, so had she. She called for a cab at the front desk which promptly arrived and she jumped into the back seat shouting her destination just as a lone figure appeared in the hotel lobby. She barely caught a glimpse of his face as she left, still indecipherable.

She paid the fare hastily and gulped in breaths of the ocean air, eagerly trying to recapture the serenity of her time on the beach before his sudden arrival. She hung up her dignity when she walked up the short walkway of pavement to a quaint yellow condo near the metropolitan area of the island. Looking disheveled, hair still wet and clinging to her neck, she knocked heavily at a cedar door and realizing that it was well after ten, she started to cry. She was not exactly sure why she was crying, but now she could unmistakably discern that she was running. And run she did, right into the arms of her mother who answered the door. The animosity that resided on her mother's face melted away with the sobbing child in her arms as she coaxed her daughter inside with sweet lulling.


	3. Chapter 3: Contention

"I am only contending that this would in fact open the door to the Centaur community."

Hermoine shook her head, the man had been to her office innumerable times within the past month questioning her motives and she was becoming increasingly upset by his complete disregard of her authority, "I will assent only in agreement that the Department will continue to maintain an open door policy but I will not allow the sacrificing of man power and money to commission an entirely new office specifically catered to the Centaurs when they never utilize our services." Before the older gentleman could interject she added, "That is why we have the Centaur Liaison Office and I assure you that I am allotting equal attention between all of the offices of the Beast Division. This conversation is erroneously founded."

She smiled at him coolly, signaling the end of their dialogue and hoping that her headache would dissipate upon his departure, it was Friday by and by. She lowered her head registering the fact that this blue-blooded man was merely envious because she was promoted over him, the first woman to head the Beast Division in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (not to mention that she was scores of decades younger than the primeval racist). He had been attempting to catch her in some sort of scandal from the day she was employed but given Hermoine's great attention to detail and tenacity, he had yet to make a fool of her. With her at the helm, the department had made major strides the likes of which had not ensued in the past four centuries. That was until recent months which she did not care to elaborate on…

He sneered at her, annoyed with her callous dismissal. For good measure she decided to rid herself of the pest, "While I appreciate your attention, if you have further complaints or concerns, please speak with the Department Head or Minister Shakelbolt. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me." All she could think was that she had never wanted him in her office to begin with and that she definitely did not regret her attitude when she dared a glance to him and saw the sour look on his face.

He turned abruptly and threw open the door with hushed spite escaping his lips, "Bloody muggle-born bitch."

She heard the overtly insulting comment but she made no move to correct him. She was making waves. She liked overcoming the adversity. That is all that this criticism and dissention could be attributed to and she thrived on meeting the challenge. No barrier, including unjustified prejudice and stark criticism, would stand in the way of her achieving change. Everyone needed a change, the wizarding world deserved to know that this evil, this darkness and rancor, would not be tolerated and at very least the vermin that infested the belly of the Ministry would never again manipulate society into a false complacency. The wizarding world especially needed to learn that she would do everything in her power, until her last breath, to ensure that freedom was every living beings right. His narrow minded anger was hardly something to fear, and suddenly bile rose in her throat and her breathing hitched in reprimand. Self-righteous, the word flung itself to the forefront of her mind and she felt the duplicity of human nature.

"Miss Granger?" Hermoine was stunned to see her assistant peek meekly into the office and she nodded in his direction, "You should leave now to make your appointment at Hogwarts."

She scolded herself for allowing that thirty minute banter to waste her time and now she would be running late to her luncheon at Hogwart's School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was meeting with Headmistress McGonagall to schedule her upcoming speech for Hagrid's classes. She had always wanted to present the idea of having the opportunity to speak in front of the school regarding the equal rights of muggle-borns. Hermoine was sure that this would be received well by the Headmistress but feared for the school's reputation, though Hermoine was considered by the press and the majority of the community as being very ambitious and a heroine for equal rights it did not distract her from being aware of the fact that it is difficult for certain organizations to accept her activism or the grandiosity of her new repute.

"Thank you, Mr. Moore."

And it was finally Sunday, she had hoped to leave the past two days in the wake of a reunion with the Weasleys and Potters but that was improbable considering the ball yesterday and Friday's paparazzi in her changing room. She made her way up the stairs slowly, her mind was blank and she would not dare allow any thoughts to enter for fear of losing her resolve. She was determined not to let the past transgressions cloud her rationale. She was clouded enough, exhausted from a long week and an eventful weekend. She muttered to herself that she needed a break and planned to sneak away to the muggle world and visit her parents. She was not initially glad that they did not surrender to her pleas to become involved in the wizarding world. She had one escape, one place where she could stand back and survey her life course and that was something she was determined to do as soon as she had the time.

Suddenly she was at his door, slightly ajar and she could hear shuffling through the gap. She inhaled deeply and knocked with purpose. She heard no objection to her action and took that as an invitation while she pushed open the door with one hand. Her face was emotionless and the temperature around her seemed to rise. She ignored the change in her disposition and stood her ground. His back was to her and she watched him pull his arms through a collared shirt, sinewy muscle she hardly remembered coiled over his wide shoulders and down his sculpted back. He turned to her then and, thank god for her time practicing diplomacy, she felt the urge to look at his bare chest but she remained focused on his face. There was anger behind his eyes and his hands fell into fists at his sides.

She took a step towards him, involuntarily pushing back the door that almost closed behind her while voicing Mrs. Wealsey's request of her youngest son. Ron did not budge. She regretted that she had almost shut herself in with him as though she had naively entered a lion's den. He resembled a colossus in that moment, so tense that his muscles seemed petrified and his face stoic like carved marble. She found him so handsome. She sniffed at this thought and crossed her arms over the expensive silk of the blouse that covered her chest. She could feel the lace of her bra underneath and inwardly cursed her perceptibility guided by her inherent lust for this ginger haired man. Tilting up her chin, the tension between them built as they both remained silent with eyes piercing into one another's. After a few minutes, she huffed and moved to escape the confines of the stifling atmosphere.

Before she could a receding step, he suddenly advanced on her and she was shocked stumbling backward and running into the door. The wood shut definitively and her hands splayed against the comforting warmth of the weathered oak. She was trapped inside the beast's lair and she sucked in a breath, fear unraveling through her extremities. Her hands, still flat against the wood trembled as he loomed over her. His face never faltered, he was livid. Swallowing hard she screwed up her face into a sneer demanding he move away before she took drastic action. He was unwavering in her threats and that is when she mentally slapped herself for not carrying her wand as she was not accustomed to doing so while in the Burrow. Instead, she steeled her countenance and she saw his nose flair before she heard his voice whisper menacingly.

"You shouldn't be here. You don't deserve to be here."

She had seen him upset before, even enraged, but she had never had this much of his scorn directed at her. She felt her stomach fall and blinked at his words, feeling the tingle of guilt chill her bones. She opened and closed her mouth to speak, but what could she possibly say to pacify this man? What could she even dare do to defend herself? She hardly even knew why this outburst was intended for her, and then she scolded herself for being self-centered. She was aware that it was disheartening to have your lover run from you and then said lover to add insult to injury by completely isolating you. She also knew that she could not possibly hope to divulge a motive when she herself had no idea why she had run. His jaw clenched and she tried to look down, but he was unrelenting.

His right hand grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his and his voice rose, "Get out and just leave. You have no right to be here."

She felt her eyes burn and she hated herself for allowing him to demean her, "Back off and I will gladly leave." She felt despicable for not slipping away in the mist of boisterous conversation that continued to ensue downstairs and she loathed the fact that she had accepted Mrs. Weasley's request. "How dare you have the audacity to dictate what I can and cannot do!" She was not sure if that accusation was poised at Ron.

His hand roughly let go of her chin to slam the side of his fist into the wall beside her head. The resounding blow made her jump and to her relief he did not delight in her fear, it seemed that he was not vengeful. "It is what you _should_ do," he emphasized cleverly and persisted, "and don't concern yourself with saying good-bye to anybody, I am sure you will just push your way back into their lives as soon as it is convenient for you."

His voice had been low and accusatory, she was suddenly inexorably pissed and she did not shrink back but pushed against his chest with hands she had previously thought were immobile while standing determinedly in her place with feet planted sternly, "I never sought you out—"

He interrupted in a hurried shout, "Don't _I_ know that!" His stressed the 'I' in such a way that made her feel surprisingly shameful but she recognized that this confrontation was inappropriate. She relinquished the feeble attempt of shoving him and ignored the itch that overcame her hands as they left his chest.

"This is not the time, nor the place—"

Her sentence was cut short when the wrist of her right hand that she had swatted indignantly in front of his face to accentuate her declaration was seized firmly in his grip. His hand was so large, encompassing a lengthy portion of her arm, and she turned attempting to use leverage in order to pull away. He only brought her to him violently, their bodies smashed into each other. She hissed in discomfort and swiveled her head away from his offending grip. She was trying to be civilized. She had moved on and he should be a good friend, he should without fail follow her lead. The ordeal was unnecessary, and then she felt his hot breath against her neck. She craned her head back slightly, relishing in a contact that she had forgone for too long. Nevertheless, she then gulped in air to distract her body and mind.

"You just can't admit that you're wrong. You're all wrong. This pristine little mask you put on for everybody else won't fool me. I know you, Hermoine. I know you, you fucking coward!"

He spat the last sentence and she refused to cry out or take possession of his declarations, "Honestly Ronald, have some form of decorum!" He rolled his eyes and she was suddenly disturbed by his disregard of her consideration, more so for her reputation. This was the sole driving force of her efforts, the reason why she had made so much headway in the wizarding world. "You cannot attest to my thoughts and it is wicked that you assume I am not honest with—"

"You haven't been honest with anyone since the war, not even with yourself. Wake the fuck up! You are being bloody intolerable!" His head moved down to hers, searching out her expression. She wasn't sure what he wanted from her but she was extremely thrown out of sorts by this encounter. She was not about to change her entire life for some man that tried to dominate her. She was completely herself, albeit she was not always present to wipe her friends' asses. She muttered as much to him and he threw his head back laughing facetiously. Whipping back down to glare at her, "You are being the most self-centered, insufferable hypocrite—"

She finally interrupted him, "Do you just want me to apologize? Fine, I am so sorry that I am so busy fighting for integration and liberating the enslaved!" She threw her free hand up and he took one step back, his face had completely changed from hate to disgust and he released her wrist.

"You don't remember who you are anymore. A few years ago, you wouldn't have paused in any crusade of yours and now you waste time getting your face painted and your hair straightened to attend some fucking useless conference where you can claim that you are doing shit that will change the world when, in fact," he shook his head as though in disbelief, "you are sitting with your foot in your mouth and thumb up your ass."

"You are vulgar," she advanced on him this time and pointed a finger into his chest. "You are vulgar and, and you have no concept of what I have to do every day!"

He crossed his arms and mockingly chided, "Oh yes, twirling about in a ridiculously expensive dress and sipping champagne with world renowned Quidditch stars is very difficult. Hermoine Granger would never have tossed out principles to wear the skin of persecuted creatures!"

She narrowed her eyes, the photo of her wrapped in that fur was candid and she never intended to wear the damned pelt in the first place. Lavender had insisted and that was hardly the point. She could hardly compose a coherent thought when she blurted, "You awful idiot, you are just jealous because Vicktor was my escort!"

She paled at what happened next, he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her ungraciously against the door while kissing her roughly. His hands proceeded to tear open her shirt, fumbling with the knot at her throat only to disregard it and ravage her heaving breasts now unceremoniously displayed from a gaping hole in her designer blouse. His pelvis thrust into hers and ground against her unabashedly. She moaned, not knowing why. Her hands jumped to save her and instead found their way under his open shirt. The contact with his hot skin made her blood boil and she knew she had been excited by their exchange long before this moment. She lightly pushed against him and he broke away from her, both panting. She was dumbstruck and heartbroken. Trust in her to let Ron tease her into believing that he cared more than a friend and then toss her emotions away for some easy sex. He had been right, she was wrong.

"I, I just," she was not sure what possessed her to start speaking. She closed her mouth and the tears finally fell and his expression remained stoic.

"I know you better than you think and right now, you are the most contemptible person on the planet." Her thumbs rubbed gently at his clavicle bone and in another attempt at escape, she viciously dug her nails into that tender flesh while turning her head. His eye twitched but he merely cupped her jaw and with dark eyes and again he kissed her. His tongue penetrated her mouth without regard for her admittance and she squirmed under his hold. His hands roamed over her waist and hips, gliding around to grip her buttocks and pull her to him with her shoulder blades supporting her weight against the wall. She sobbed into his mouth, she was lost. She had run too far and he was bringing her home.

She gave in, wrapping her arms around his neck and arching into his embrace. Their fight continued without words and she would invariably lose, she already had, just as soon as she had seen him that day. His hands slithered further down her thighs and began the task of bunching up her skirt and lifting the fabric over her hips, the delicious feel of the tension around her thighs caused by the guarders of her stockings induced another unsolicited moan. She ran her hands through his hair, rubbing the sensitive flesh behind his ears and trailing downward to massage the strong muscles of his shoulders. When he had the skirt to her waist, he again grabbed her buttocks and lifted her and she wrapped her legs around him, it seemed so natural. None of this was contrived and she felt fresh tears fall sparingly for her unwitting heart.

His hands held her up at the bottom of her thighs and he delightfully rubbed the soft flesh. She sighed in pleasure and he moved so that her weight was supported against the same door she had abhorred only a few moments before. His nimble fingers moved to push aside the fabric of her flimsy underwear and she cautiously unbuckled his belt, waiting only a split second before hurriedly unfastening his pants. Her hand dove to stroke his penis. He groaned and his lips moved to her throat, sucking and biting with abandon. Her moans were involuntary and the volume of her voice did not concern either of them. They shifted brusquely to extricate his cock and position him for what they both knew was inevitable. One of his hands pulled down her bra tersely and he took a nipple between his teeth.

That straying hand slid back to her ass and his thumb nimbly hooked into the side of frail lace. He tugged roughly; the panties gave way with a shrill tear. Hermoine pulled his mouth back to her own swollen lips, colliding against his while unbeknownst to her; he copied the previous action of ripping her knickers on the other side of her body. The fabric fell to the floor without further ado and Ron smirked against her mouth. She took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Her fingers caressed the stubble littering his poignant jaw and she enjoyed the scratching sensation against her soft skin. Their mouths moved in sync with one another. Hermoine trailed those digits from his jaw downward over his neck and torso to skillfully massage his hardened cock. He seemed to grow impatient, she already was, and he pressed his body closer to hers.

She shouted his name and he pushed into her as she held phallus steady. They copulated fervently, his thrusts powerful and unforgiving. She cried out delightfully and his vocalized his pleasure with strapping grunts. His mouth suckled her flesh, and every stalwart plunge was punctuated with Hermoine's hips driving to meet the force. The movements seemed intrinsic but the feelings were all too overwhelming to consider inalienable for Hermoine, she could not bring herself to analyze the raw passion between them. Her hands sought out contact with his skin and one found its way under his shirt tugging at his bulging Trapezius. The nails of her second hand scratched distressed scours vertically down his Latissimus dorsi, this was met with Ron's resounding bellow of approval. He moved closer to the door, pushing upward and she felt her orgasm approaching. Her legs flooded with liquid heat and she focused her energy on squeezing her pelvis tightly. She cam first while screaming his name and he soon followed.

He shuddered and held her legs firmly to him, her head rested against the door and she stared at the brilliant stars that were slowly dissipating from her vision. He moved again, closer to the door and towards her vulnerable form, to help steady them in the unstable position. She contended with the thoughts that attempted to race through her mind as he laid his head at the apex of her neck and shoulder. Her hands soothed the tension of his Splenius capitis and he relaxed under her ministrations. What felt like an eternity of catharsis for Hermoine was only moments of recovery for Ron, only as far as she could assume. It was a well founded and educated guess. Her body became heavy with the burden of his words and her deeds, despite the load she allowed her heart to soar.

"It was," trailing off, she took in ragged breaths with eyes closed and their foreheads resting against one another without intention.

Ron pulled out from inside of her and she whimpered at the feeling, she heard him swallow. "It was," he paused before finishing her sentence, "never supposed to be this way."

Not exactly her sentiments but the words hung in the air like tangible grief and her eyes squeezed more tightly shut. She voided the voices in her head and she felt Ron's gaze on her. He lifted his head and with lax strength, lowered her to her feet. She had lost a stiletto and one foot landed flat on the cool floor. She was now so far beneath him and she had an excuse to open her eyes and not look into those blue pools that hypnotized her, distorted her reality. Instead she remained against the door with shaky knees and pulled down her skirt while seeking her lost heel with unfocused vision. Ron's hand finished straightening her skirt and she involuntarily met his stare. He bit his lip and turned before either could say something regretful, his arms working as though to refasten his clothing.

She found her shoe and placed a hand on the wall in order to balance herself. For a moment, she was deep in thought regarding trivial things like how much time they had spent in his room and reciting the charm she would use in order to fix her blouse, not to mention how she could disappear from the Burrow without inciting an inquiry. A calloused hand encircled her ankle and she was again astonished to find Ron had lazily rescued the shoe grasped in her steely grip. He never looked up at her as he gently maneuvered her toes into the narrow crevice, thoughtfully slipping the ball of her foot within the confines of the dark leather and persuading her heel to fit perfectly inside. He guided her foot to the floor and did not rise from the squatting position, his forearms on his knees and hair covering his face.

"Please leave."

To Hermoine, this did not seem to be a bizarre appeal. He has requested she vacate his home upon meeting her in the sitting room. She was not offended, she was not upset, she only doubted her own response to the situation and she felt distasteful in her outlandishly gaudy attire. She was silent and clasped her blouse closed while exiting the room hastily. Her hand quivered when reaching for the door but without hesitation she exited. She never registered what she did from there, but had somehow gathered her purse and uttered a temporal charm in order to floo back to her flat without any notice to her hosts. She unfettered the binds of her garish reputation and sunk into a bath to soothe her crumpled pride. She was going to start again; distractions would be a thing of the past and all ills could simply be evaluated after a curative soak. She did not need to hide in order to be seen. As though a penetrating light awakens someone, she understood the controversy within herself and while completely submerging herself in the healing waters, she resolutely vowed to abstain from destroying her second baptism.


End file.
